


Iconography

by Uozumi



Series: Tumblr fic prompts from various fandoms [11]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Demisexual Malcolm Tucker, F/M, I Blame Tumblr, Jamie has an ex and kids, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Tattoos, rent boy!jamie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 17:43:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3390473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uozumi/pseuds/Uozumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm discovers that the ex-seminary student he befriended is a rent boy a colleague bought him for his birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iconography

**Author's Note:**

> **Fandom** _The Thick of It_  
>  **Character(s)/Pairing(s)** Malcolm Tucker, Jamie MacDonald; Malcolm/Jamie (pre-relationship), mention of Jamie marrying and divorcing a woman  
>  **Genre** Drama/Friendship/Pre-series  
>  **Rating** PG-13 (R for language)  
>  **Word Count** 3,465  
>  **Disclaimer** _The Thick of It_ c. BBC  
>  **Summary** Malcolm discovers that the ex-seminary student he befriended is a rent boy a colleague bought him for his birthday.  
>  **Warning(s)** prostitution, spoilers for all episodes and specials of _The Thick of It_  
>  **Notes** This fic is the product of some Tumblr discussion and friend discussion on various topics. I’ve been wanting to revisit the rent boy!Jamie prompt for a long time, and when the religious iconographic tattooed!Jamie prompt appeared, the two just kind of fell into place together easily. The Latin translates to “I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith,” 2 Timothy 4:7. I’m still kind of lolling that this fic initially started out because I have more confidence writing sex now and then sex just kind of never happened.

**_Iconography_ **

When a colleague found out Malcolm was a virgin, he bought Malcolm a prostitute for Malcolm’s twenty-third birthday. The gift went nowhere. Malcolm had no interest in her, let alone a desire to have sex with her. A year later, the same colleague sent a rent boy Malcolm’s way. Malcolm was not sure why he let the boy into his flat, but the boy had cake and a nice voice despite the strikingly fake BBC standard accent.

“You’re a child,” Malcolm said. He cut the cake into squares. He offered one to the rent boy. 

“Fuck you, I’m nineteen,” he said. “You can call me Lyall.” Lyall took the cake eagerly, but ate it slowly, concentrating on tasting each bite. 

Malcolm frowned but decided not to ask if Lyall was hungry. Instead, Malcolm retrieved two drinks and set one down wordlessly in front of Lyall. 

Lyall nodded thanks and opened the cap with his hands instead of a bottle opener. He watched Malcolm for a long time and then he asked, “How do you want this to go? I know your friend probably ordered me as a joke.” 

“He thinks he knows what’s good for me,” Malcolm said. “He just a nosy bastard. Probably wants to fuck me.” 

“Do you want to fuck him?” Lyall asked. He sipped his drink with the same enjoyment as he ate his cake. 

“No,” Malcolm said and his nose wrinkled. He glanced at Lyall. Lyall had large, expressive eyes and curls done up in a faux hawk. Malcolm’s eyes followed the arc of Lyall’s eyeliner and studied the curve of his lips. Malcolm could have done without the makeup and the gel, but he knew it was likely a way Lyall could hide from his clients during the day. Anyone vaguely intelligent would know to put on a face for this kind of work, Malcolm reasoned. 

“What do you want to happen tonight?” Lyall asked. “You could fuck me, you could not fuck me. Not everyone does. There’s this granny that hires me once a week to model dresses for her.” He licked the frosting from his fingers while keeping eye contact with Malcolm. “I don’t do chores. I won’t do stuff like rob a bank.”

“How will we have any fun unless we rob a bank?” Malcolm asked. He snorted and shook his head. He offered Lyall another piece of cake. Then he took the last piece for himself. Malcolm finished his cake faster than Lyall finished his. He cleaned off his hands and then went to his record player. He put on _The Best of Bowie_ instead of one of the singer’s studio albums he owned. The compilation album worked well for most company he had. Malcolm set the volume so it was loud enough to enjoy but not so loud that they couldn’t actually communicate without sharing their conversation with his neighbours. 

Lyall sat. Malcolm remained standing. Malcolm ran his fingers through his longish, curly hair. “This is bollocks. This whole thing is bollocks.” He paced. “Has he paid you?”

“I’m not here to discuss payment,” Lyall said. “I’m here to entertain, to please.” He smiled and settled into the settee. 

Malcolm ran his tongue along his teeth. Lyall’s smile seemed genuine and it felt welcoming. His eyes moved to the the necklace around Lyall’s throat. It was silver chain links with a cross in the centre. 

Lyall glanced down though he could not see the cross resting against his collarbone. He touched it and looked up at Malcolm. “Didn’t expect a religious whore?”

“Something like that,” Malcolm said.

“I’ve got more than this,” Lyall said. “Want to see?”

Malcolm’s eyes followed Lyall’s fingers as they slid across the metal. He nodded, though once he nodded, Malcolm worried Lyall might show him a religious themed cock ring. 

Lyall stood up. He slowly pulled off his jacket and cast it across the arm of the settee. He pulled his vest over his head, exposing dark, curly hair across his torso. He cast the vest on top of the jacket. 

Malcolm bit his tongue. He could not look away. However, he felt fascination more than arousal. Lyall turned his back to Malcolm, displaying an ornate tattooed cross that ran the length of his thoracic vertebrae. The patibulum ran across Lyall’s upper shoulder blades. He flexed his muscles and Malcolm felt the breath catch in his throat. Malcolm stepped closer. “Can I…?”

“It’s my job to let people touch me,” Lyall said. He licked his lips. His eyes closed when the tips of Malcolm’s fingers ghosted along the design. Malcolm’s fingers flattened and slid firmly down the tattoo’s stipes. He could feel Lyall’s vertebrae. Lyall shivered and Malcolm removed his fingers briefly before placing them along the tattoo’s patibulum. 

“I’m just touching your skin,” Malcolm murmured. “I’m not doing anything.” His fingers dropped down and traced the base of Lyall’s right scapula. He traced a dark mole along the bone.

“That’s how it works,” Lyall said. “Touch my back, kiss my face, bite my neck…” his voice trailed. “Touch can start a lot of things.”

Malcolm’s fingers moved up Lyall’s back and he clasped one of Lyall’s shoulders. “Touch my back, kiss my face, bite my neck,” he paused, “you’ll be lucky if I feel anything like that.” His hand slid down Lyall’s arm and then his fingers left Lyall’s body. 

Lyall took a deep breath and turned to face Malcolm. His eyes moved from Malcolm’s face to his crotch to his hands and back to Malcolm’s face. “Want to find out?” he asked. “Maybe it depends on who’s biting.”

“As long as that’s all you do,” Malcolm said. He was curious and Lyall did not make him feel pressured to participate. 

Lyall stepped forward and kissed Malcolm’s cheek, his jaw. His kisses were slow, deliberate. He rested his hands on Malcolm’s waist and then let them slide around to Malcolm’s back. His fingers carefully worked their way up, feeling Malcolm’s muscles through his shirt. He mouthed down Malcolm’s neck and paused. 

“Go ahead,” Malcolm said quietly. He was curious. His erections were infrequent and his sexual desires even more so. He felt a subtle warmth in his stomach but it did not change his mind. Malcolm knew he would not have sex with Lyall that night no matter what Lyall might do to him. He had no interest in having sex with someone he did not know very well. 

Lyall bit Malcolm at the base of his neck and sucked on the bite. Malcolm closed his eyes and almost felt a twinge in his stomach. Lyall licked the bite and then stepped back, his hands retreating from Malcolm’s body. He did not speak, only waited. 

Malcolm opened his eyes. He touched the bite mark. He considered his options. “How long does he want you to stay?” he asked. 

“Until six,” Lyall said. He did not elaborate if leaving now would affect whatever deal struck. 

Malcolm looked at the clock. It was already past the time he normally would have gone to sleep. “We can share the bed. Nothing sexual.” 

The bed was big enough for both of them barely. Lyall let Malcolm get ready first and choose a side of the bed first. They fell asleep with their backs to one another. 

It was still dark when Malcolm woke. Lyall was already awake and sitting up in bed. Malcolm could see the cross on Lyall’s back in the dim light. He reached out, but retracted his hand before he could touch Lyall, and rolled out of bed. 

When Malcolm returned from the toilet, Lyall still sat on the bed. Malcolm looked at the clock. There was still thirty minutes until his alarm and enough time for breakfast before Lyall was to leave. Malcolm picked the alarm clock up and forced it to ring before silencing it and setting it back on the dresser. He sat down on the bed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Now what?” he asked. 

“Whatever you want,” Lyall said. He leaned forward a little, allowing Malcolm a better view of the tattoo as though he knew Malcolm was looking at it again. 

Malcolm ran his tongue along his teeth. He sighed. “If I knew you,” he said, “maybe then.” He touched Lyall’s shoulder and then he got out of bed and headed towards the kitchenette. 

It was a year later when Malcolm’s editor handed him an assignment to cover the impending closing of one of Scotland’s last remaining seminaries for the paper where he worked. He had a camera around his neck, his notes in one hand, and his pen in the other. He walked down the steps of one of the buildings after an interview. One of the students, named Jamie, took to the stairs at the same moment. Jamie slowed and looked at Malcolm. 

“What?” Malcolm asked. He shifted the things in his hands so he could run a hand through his curls. 

Jamie waited for Malcolm to say more, and then asked, “Are you a journalist?”

“Yeah,” Malcolm said. He looked back to see if they were in the way of anyone exiting the building, but they were the only people outside the building.

Jamie licked his lips. “I can show you around if you want.” He headed back to the pavement. “I’ve been here since the first move four years ago. Started with pre-theology.” 

“Are you going to go to Bearsden?” Malcolm asked. He followed Jamie. 

“Probably,” Jamie said. “I’ve got two more years.” He took Malcolm through the campus. After the tour, Jamie offered to help Malcolm with whatever he needed for the article. Every time Malcolm came to campus to work on the article, they spent time together, each meeting becoming less about business than the one before it. After the article was published, they continued to meet up together. After some drinks at a pub, Jamie took Malcolm back to a house he lived in with some other students. The other students were out when they retreated to Jamie’s room. 

Jamie removed his jacket and his jumper. He had wreaths of thorns tattoos on both arms near enough to his elbows so even when he rolled his sleeves up, they would not appear. Malcolm’s eyes followed the design of the tattoos. “What kind of priest has tattoos?” he asked. 

“This one,” Jamie said. He sat on the foot of his bed since Malcolm sat on Jamie’s desk chair. It was not the first time Malcolm had been in Jamie’s room. Jamie flopped back on the bed so his legs still dangled off the edge. They fell into a companionable silence. 

“So, why the priesthood?” Malcolm asked after a while. “Going to lead the church into the twentieth century?”

Jamie did not immediately respond. He sighed and rubbed his face before sitting up. “I don’t know.” He sighed. “I used to know.”

“Shouldn’t you know?” Malcolm asked. He leaned back in the desk chair as best he could. It was wooden and meant to encourage proper posture. 

Jamie rested his arms on his thighs and leaned forward. “I’ve always been religious. Being a priest seemed like the right thing to do when I was sixteen. Now I’m twenty and I’m living a devote life of lies.”

Malcolm ran his tongue along his teeth. He considered what his older sister might say. Growing up, she had been home more than their parents had been. She was always good with advice. “Would you want to lead a congregation knowing you were lying to them?” he asked. 

Jamie frowned. “Everyone does some lying.” He stood up and began to pace. “I’m in too deep.”

“Stop pacing,” Malcolm said. “Look at me.” When he had Jamie’s gaze, Malcolm asked, “Do you want to be a priest?”

“No,” the answer was fast and Jamie blinked. He repeated, “No,” and let out a groan. “I’m fucked. I’m completely fucked.”

“No, you’re not,” Malcolm said. He leaned his arm against Jamie’s desk. “Show me something you’ve written.” 

“Like what?” Jamie asked. 

“I don’t care, something that shows how well you can write,” Malcolm said. He took the notebook from Jamie. It was full of the drafts Jamie would do before typing up the final papers on his typewriter. Malcolm went through the notebook. He felt Jamie watching him. “I can get you a job,” he said. “Write some stuff about music or sport to bring with you.” He set the notebook on the desk. 

Jamie got the job. Within a year, he met and began dating a nice Catholic girl who lived nearby. They were engaged on New Year’s Eve and prepared to marry in October. Malcolm was best man. The stag night was filled with drink and people Jamie knew that came to wish him well. The wedding would take place at the hotel where Jamie and Malcolm shared a room on a floor below the bridal party. They returned to the room in high spirits. Jamie collapsed face first onto one of the beds. Malcolm sat on the other. 

Jamie sat up and then rubbed his face. “How long…?”

“I don’t know,” Malcolm said. He looked at the clock. “Five hours,” if he was reading it correctly. They set the alarm before going out for the night to make certain they woke on time in the morning. 

Jamie sat up and started to undress for bed. Malcolm started to do the same. Malcolm did not feel pissed but he did not feel sober either. He struggled with the buttons on his shirt. They were always hard to navigate even when completely sober. A movement out of the corner of his eye caught Malcolm attention. He watched Jamie strip off his shirt and cast it aside. Malcolm’s fingers paused with his buttons. There was an ornate cross tattooed on Jamie’s back. It ran the length of Jamie’s thoracic spine. As soon as it appeared, Jamie flopped down onto his bed, pulled the covers up over his head. Malcolm could barely see Jamie’s curls on the pillow let alone any tattoos. 

Malcolm looked away and continued wrestling with his buttons. He knew the cross but his brain was sluggish and could not place where he knew it. It was not until the next night when Malcolm was back home and alone with his thoughts that he realized it looked strikingly like Lyall’s tattoo. Yet, Malcolm was uncertain of his memory from the stag night and wondered if he only dreamed the tattoo instead. 

By the end of the 80’s, Jamie had two daughters and Malcolm was their godfather. Malcolm had a quiet relationship with one of the people working across the street from the paper, but it ended when his partner mistook Malcolm’s lack of interest in sex for a lack of interest in them. 

“They’re all selling liquid shit and the public chose brand loyalty,” Malcolm said as he finished a conversation with a man he met when covering the last election. The man was poised to inherit the party and they both had stimulating conversations together at the last party conference. “We need to give them something else or at least flavour it.” 

“We can’t give them something else until we change leaders,” the man said. “You know this, Malcolm. That’s why I’m going to need you.” 

Malcolm paused and looked out his window. He did not focus on the view. His mind ran with everything that could mean. He tried to imagine leaving journalism for politics. He knew he would enjoy it. “How?” Malcolm asked.

“Help me get to power. Once I’m party leader, I’ll become Prime Minister, but only with your help. We need new voices, Malcolm. You’re more of a new voice than I am.” 

Malcolm ran his tongue along his teeth. “Let me sleep on it,” he said, but they both knew Malcolm would agree. 

“You’ve got time,” the man said. They finished the conversation. Malcolm slowly set the phone down. He took a deep breath and began to think about his future in the long term. Half an hour later, the phone rang again. This time it was Jamie. 

Jamie lived in a flat bigger than Malcolm’s was. When Malcolm arrived, Jamie let Malcolm into the building and then into the flat. His youngest daughter was three and clung to his shoulders sobbing quietly. The girl cried so hard she vomited. There were stains on both of them and a bad smell to the air. Jamie’s older daughter was five and in her room curled up in bed asleep. 

Malcolm set a bag on the table. “I brought peppermints,” he said. “That’s what my sister always gave me.” 

Malcolm cut the peppermints to make them harder to choke on them. Jamie handed the smaller pieces of candy to his daughter. She quieted as the peppermint helped settle her stomach and the sugar helped distract her from tears. Jamie cleaned her up and got her ready for bed. Once she was asleep, he left the girls’ room, pulled off his vest, and put it with other dirty clothes. He rubbed his face and looked at Malcolm. “I owe you.”

Malcolm did not agree or argue. He set about preparing tea after a small, tired nod from Jamie. 

“Their mam called tonight,” Jamie said. “She’s not coming home. She’s going to see them for Christmas. The girls are taking it hard.” Jamie washed his hands. “Lots of crying.”

Malcolm looked over at Jamie and stopped. He could see the cross tattoo on Jamie’s back. The stipes ran the length of Jamie’s thoracic spine and the patibulum rested across Jamie’s upper shoulder blades. There was a tattoo under it now that read, “bonum certamen certavi cursum consummavi fidem servavi – II ad Timotheum, IV:vii.” The more Malcolm looked at the cross, the more he knew it was the same cross Lyall had tattooed on his back.

Jamie turned around and dried his hands. He looked at Malcolm. “What?” 

Malcolm decided not to mention his memory of the cross tattoo. “I’ll tell you later,” Malcolm said. If asked, he decided he would tell Jamie about his political offer if he could talk about it when the time came. 

Two years passed. Jamie got divorced and his daughters saw their mother on weekends and holidays. It was the Saturday after Easter when Malcolm and Jamie gathered at Malcolm’s flat to enjoy a day off from work. They were making lunch when Malcolm said quietly enough that his voice would stay between him and Jamie and not drift through the walls, “I’m going to move to London. Nobody can know yet.” 

“Some secret spy job?” Jamie asked. He placed tomatoes on his sandwich and then looked at Malcolm to gauge how Malcolm felt about the move. 

“I’m going to be the next Media Advisor,” Malcolm said. He met Jamie’s gaze. “There’s a position opening up when I get that job that would be good for you if you want to move to London.”

Jamie looked away. He set his knife down and his eyebrows drew together. Malcolm said nothing, letting Jamie’s mind sort through the offer. Finally, Jamie said, “I’m a liability.”

“We’re all liabilities,” Malcolm said. He could not think of a person he met in the party that did not have something that could undo their career instantly if the public learned of it. 

Jamie shook his head. “I fucked people for money,” Jamie said. “I did whatever people paid me to do.”

“Except chores,” Malcolm said and paused to remember what else, “or robbing banks.” Malcolm held Jamie’s gaze. “If you go down for this, I’ll follow. We know what happened. We can’t prove what didn’t.” 

Jamie held Malcolm’s gaze a long time and then he shook his head. “I thought you didn’t remember.” 

“I figured it out a few years ago,” Malcolm said. He finished constructing his sandwich. “I wasn’t sure you remembered.” He also was not sure if Jamie would want to remember. 

“How could I forget? I knew immediately,” Jamie said. He picked his knife up to finish his sandwich. 

“I would have remembered my hair,” Malcolm snorted. He had not had that longish curls since the end of the 80’s. Now his hair was so short that it almost did not want to curl. 

Jamie finished his sandwich. “You fed me,” he said. “You gave me half your birthday cake.” He picked up his plate to take it to the table. “All the cunts and cocks can’t compete with that.” Jamie sat at the table.

Malcolm joined him. Soon, they would begin working towards bringing the party to power for the first time in decades side by side as they were for the last several years.

**The End**


End file.
